HOW TAILLEVENT STAYS ON TOP

The world's finest restaurant? Only a handful of names might be considered, and surely high among them would be Taillevent, the discreet and elegant Parisian establishment that has held the top three-star Michelin rating since 1973.

But what on earth does one do to get to the top and, more important, what's the secret to staying there?

Well, first of all, you don't even allow yourself to admit that you're the best. And if you're Jean-Claude Vrinat, the modest, steady, 48-year-old owner of Taillevent, you take a deep, hopeful breath each morning and tell yourself and your staff, ''We can do better.''

In fact, Mr. Vrinat, who dines in competing establishments as often as possible, does not even consider Taillevent ''the best.''

''The food is better at Jamin,'' he volunteers with exceptional frankness, saying that the Parisian chef Jo"el Robuchon's cuisine is more inventive and expresses a certain personality he finds lacking at Taillevent.

''But wait until later this spring, when our new menu comes out. I've been researching and working. You'e going to see some changes.''

At Taillevent, ''doing better'' hinges on two very Vrinat-like words: detail and discipline. An outsider might add a third element: generosity.

Although Taillevent's roots go back to 1946, when the restaurant was founded by Mr. Vrinat's father, Andre, today it bears the unmistakable personality of the man one might well call the world's greatest gentleman.

Taillevent marches to his beat, plays by his rules, suffers his doubts and disappointments. Yet through it all the restaurant manages to evoke a well-bred, respectful, distinctly French air that's at the same time totally human.

At Taillevent, luxury and greatness are not measured in silver cloches or gilded chandeliers, but in attitude. Almost anyone who has ever dined at Taillevent returns with an anecdote that captures the grand restaurant's spirit. Recently an American couple, dining there for the first time to celebrate a special anniversary, followed Mr. Vrinat's advice and ordered half portions of several dishes, allowing them a wider sampling of the restaurant's menu. Inadvertently, they were charged for full portions, an error Mr. Vrinat noted the next morning as he routinely reviewed the previous day's bills. Instantly, a rebate check was mailed off to the happy diners, who were unaware of the error.

At Taillevent, the details and discipline are set in motion each weekday morning around 8, when the admirably trim restaurateur, dressed casually in a turtleneck sweater, comes down from his fourth-floor apartment to tackle the day's affairs. By 9, the staff of 48 begins arriving, ready to accept deliveries of the restaurant's famous turbot and delicate spring asparagus, Breton lobster and tender poultry from France's barnyard in Bresse.

As the phone begins ringing off the hook, Mr. Vrinat starts brooding. He winces as he discusses ''the reservation problem.''

The problem with Taillevent is that it's almost impossible to get a table. Each weekday only about 160 people will get to take part in the Taillevent experience, as they're coddled and pampered and most generously fed.

Each day, about 30 to 40 letters come in from the United States, some of them two or three pages long, begging for a reservation. Some envelopes even contain checks or cash, which are immediately returned.

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Of those 30 or 40 hopefuls, the restaurant will find room for 2, maybe 3 diners. Although Mr. Vrinat outspokenly favors Americans, he feels strongly that the restaurant must maintain a French personality, and so he aims for a clientele that's about 60 percent French.

''Reservations are my biggest problem at the moment, and it's a problem I cannot solve,'' he explains. ''I can only hope people will be understanding.''

To make matters worse, Mr. Vrinat's dream is actually to reduce the number of tables, limiting each service to 60 diners, allowing him to move closer to the perfection he seeks in service and food.

Much of what makes Taillevent great is not the least bit visible. While most restaurateurs, and many chefs, are willing to allow themselves a night off from time to time, Mr. Vrinat refuses to delegate his multiple responsibilities.

''My place is here,'' he says flatly. ''Not at receptions, not having my picture taken, but here directing.'' Only if he's exceptionally exhausted does he allow himself to tiptoe upstairs before the last diner has left for the evening, usually well after midnight.

Most diners are aware that Taillevent's food and service is special, but few are conscious of what makes it so. Who would know that the exceptional chocolates, made in the upstairs pastry workshop, are prepared fresh each day, a mark of quality that even the finest Paris chocolate shops can't match? Or who would imagine that, nestled back in a special cupboard in the vaulted wine cellars beneath the streets rests a collection of handmade cigars that are turned each day so they remain at their peak?

If the silverware has a certain shine, it's because each day the flatware is washed in a special, binlike machine filled with tiny metal pellets that tumble-clean and polish the silver at the same time. Then it is hand- rubbed and dried, and touched only with two fingers, by the edges, so that fingerprints never mar the shine.

The kitchen equipment gets the same fastidious treatment. Each of the dozens of copper pots is retinned four or five times each year, so as not to taint the stocks and fine sauces that are painstakingly strained through a fine mesh sieve before serving.

Taillevent's reputation for generosity has not been developed by accident. The restaurant remains one of France's least expensive grand restaurants - one can expect to spend $30 to $40 a person, not including wine - with one of the finest cellars in the world. All this is due to the fact that since 1946, every centime has been reinvested in the cellar or in renovation of the grand 18th-century townhouse, now known as Taillevent, at 15 Rue Lamennais.

''To begin Taillevent today, one would have to be a philanthropist,'' says Mr. Vrinat.

But doesn't the owner of one of the world's most luxurious restaurants ever think he might really rather be running a cozy neighborhood bistro?

''Yes, I admit it's crossed my mind, but not seriously. What's difficult about running an establishment such as this, is that to maintain our standards, I must never let up on personal discipline, on staff discipline, and if I'm in a bad mood, I can't show it.

''With a little bistro, I could serve all those wonderful little-known wines, simple food, and show my temper from time to time,'' says Mr. Vrinat, letting his hair down a bit, offering an impish grin.

Turning serious again, Mr. Vrinat volunteers his own summation, or explanation for the restaurant's extraordinary reputation:

''If we are successful, it's because we have respect for the customer. The important thing is that they are happy, not whether I want them to order this dish or that, this wine or that. I never look at the amount of a bill. That's not the point. To me, that's the spirit of the house, what I like to call a dynamic ambiance.''

PATRICIA WELLS, restaurant critic of The International Herald Tribune, is the author of ''The Food Lover's Guide to Paris'' (Workman).

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A version of this article appears in print on April 14, 1985, on Page 10010014 of the National edition with the headline: HOW TAILLEVENT STAYS ON TOP. Order Reprints|Today's Paper|Subscribe